


Fire's a Bit Flash

by wheel_pen



Series: Nicobar [12]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, BDSM, M/M, Nicobar, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-27 23:26:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5068951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock’s experiment with slave John goes just a bit horribly wrong, resulting in Sherlock being banned from interacting with slaves for a while. John misses him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fire's a Bit Flash

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored. That’s just how I do things.  
> This story is set in a fictional modern country where slavery is legal. There is a huge disparity between the very rich, who sequester themselves in luxurious compounds, and the rest of the population.  
> Inherent in slavery and other forms of subjugation are dubious consent, unhealthy relationships, and violence.  
> I hope you enjoy this AU. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe.

“Okay, I do want to know what you’re doing.”

“A minute ago you said you didn’t.”

“Well, I’ve changed my mind.”

“Well, so have I. I rescind my offer to tell you.”

“Sherlock!”

“ _John_.” He was clearly trying to mimic John, if John was a nasally adolescent.

“It’s _my_ back, I want to know what you’re doing to it,” John insisted. “Why don’t you want to tell me? What could you possibly—“

Sherlock, who was sitting rather comfortably on John’s rear end, grabbed his turning head and pushed it back towards the mattress. “Don’t move, you’ll mess it up.”

John sniffed suspiciously. “Are you wearing latex gloves?”

Sherlock paused. “Are you allergic to latex?”

“No.”

He continued working. “I don’t have time to pat your hand and reassure you that I won’t be causing permanent damage to you,” he went on patronizingly.

“You don’t have _time_?” John repeated with disbelief. “Have you got a hot date later or something?”

He heard the smirk in Sherlock’s voice. “Something like that, yes,” he claimed. “But the real time constraint is how long it takes the analgesic to wear off.”

John’s eyes, which he had closed in resignation to better enjoy the attention Sherlock was giving him, now popped open in alarm. “What?”

“You see, there you go,” Sherlock pointed out, as if John was being unreasonable. “Now you’ll want a detailed explanation—“

“We can start with _undetailed_.”

“And it will be all ‘You’re what? You’re doing _what_ to me?!’ and ‘Have you ever done this before?!’ with a great deal of repetition and meaningless soothing words.” Now Sherlock’s impression of John sounded like a vapid teenage girl. “Only to bring us to the same point we’re at now, but with much more discomfort for you, as the analgesic will have worn off.”

John did not respond for a long moment. His imagination was not twisted enough to come up with any ideas about what Sherlock might be doing to him. “How about brief questions?” he tried. He was unwilling to give up.

“Only if they have brief answers.”

“Well, that’s rather up to you,” John shot back, getting peeved. Okay, analgesic and latex gloves. “Is it permanent?”

“No.”

“Does it involve an animal or animal product?”

“No.”

He frowned. “Plant material?” One of Sherlock’s hobbies was extracting nasty essential oils from exotic plants—and testing them on people.

“No, John,” Sherlock replied obnoxiously. “It’s strictly minerals. Is that acceptable to you?”

“Well I don’t know, do I?” That was the _point_. “Are you going to finish the whole thing before the analgesic wears off?”

He didn’t like Sherlock’s pause. “May have to reapply for the reversal process,” he decided.

This was sounding less and less good to John, and it hadn’t started out very high. “It’s an analgesic cream? So you’re just working on the outside skin?”

“Slight subcutaneous.”

“Ought one to have a medical degree to perform this procedure?” John asked acidly.

“Who says I don’t?” Sherlock replied crisply.

“Tell me what you’re doing!”

Sherlock swung off him suddenly, but held his head firmly in place when he tried again to look around. “The prep work is done,” he announced. “You must remain perfectly still for the next part—“

“Then you’d better tell me what’s going on!” John demanded, starting to squirm on purpose.

“Stop. Alright, fine.” He stilled. “I’ve stitched small strips of aluminium in an arc across your back. I’m going to sprinkle magnesium powder in between them and then set one end on fire. The trail should carry across your back.”

John blinked several times at this, then turned his head to meet Sherlock’s gaze. The other man didn’t seem hesitant, exactly—did Sherlock ever?—but he did glance at John warily as he hooked a video camera over the headboard, pointed down at him. “You’re going to set me on fire?” he rephrased slowly. There was no need to ask if Sherlock was serious.

“A small portion of you, yes,” Sherlock agreed readily, checking the angle of the camera on his laptop. “It’s a light, quick flame. It shouldn’t damage you and I doubt you’ll feel anything.”

“You’re going to set me on fire,” John repeated, laying his head back down. “Well why didn’t you do it on my chest, so I could at least watch?”

Sherlock glanced over at him—there was often need to question if _John_ was serious. But for the moment Sherlock chose to take him at face value. “That’s the spirit, John,” he encouraged. “Scientific inquiry.”

“Mm-hmm, yes,” John commented dryly. “You actually put stitches in me?”

“I sterilized everything properly first,” Sherlock promised him. “It’s time to apply the magnesium. Will you hold still?”

John closed his eyes and tried to relax. “I will lie here and think of England,” he declared. “Cool, moist England where the police hunt down mad blokes who do this sort of thing.”

Sherlock tsked and leaned over him. “I have _been_ to England, John, and I can assure you, there are plenty of people with similar hobbies walking around free,” he claimed. “Some of them are even paid quite well for it. Now _hold still_.”

**

“So, you set him on fire.” Lestrade’s tone suggested he was really not impressed.

“Why does everyone fixate on that?” Sherlock asked in irritation. “It was a light, quick flame across only a small portion of his back.”

Lestrade glanced over at the doctor who was carefully removing charred bits of metal from John’s back. “You’re right,” he conceded. “Fire’s a bit flash, but it’s really sewing metal fragments into his skin that puts it over the top into horror movie territory.”

John giggled suddenly. “He’s trying to turn me into a cyborg!” he proposed cheerfully.

Lestrade and Sherlock tried to ignore him. “It was a perfectly sensible way to secure the aluminium strips,” Sherlock protested. “My previous experiments indicated most appropriate adhesives caused a mild rash.”

“Well aren’t you considerate,” Lestrade deadpanned.

“Sherlock, Sherlock!” John whispered loudly.

“What?”

“I don’t really want to be a cyborg,” John admitted with loopy agitation. “Can I be excused? Only, can we still have sex first?”

“I suppose, John, if you’re going to be _difficult_ ,” Sherlock answered in a comfortingly stern tone that seemed to calm the slave. Lestrade was not amused by their banter, however. “I’m not sure he’s capable of giving an accurate description of events right now,” Sherlock observed dubiously. The painkillers they’d given John at the clinic were rather stronger than what Sherlock had access to.

“No need,” Lestrade assured him, modestly smug. “Got it all on video. Good eye for composition, you have.”

Sherlock scoffed at this. “Well then, you know it was an accident,” he insisted. “Increased temperature caused some of the magnesium powder to slip from his back to the bed—“

Lestrade was already shaking his head. “No, knocking over a glass of water is an accident,” he corrected sharply. “ _You_ went to a lot of trouble to set up something quite dangerous, which not unexpectedly, went horribly wrong.”

Sherlock frowned. “I think ‘horribly’ is an overstatement,” he opined. “I didn’t even _like_ that bedspread. I can easily get another.” Lestrade blinked at him expectantly. “John is barely singed!” Sherlock added.

“Oh yeah, I’m fine,” John singsonged from the table. “I’m _so_ fine right now. I love it here. I love your eyes,” he added to Sherlock. “They’re so blue. What do you call that color?”

“Blue,” Sherlock advised him shortly.

John reached out a wobbly arm to him. “C’mere, I need to tell you something,” he insisted. “I don’t want to be a cyborg, I don’t want _anyone_ to be a cyborg—“

Sherlock started to walk closer, but Lestrade intervened. “Oh I don’t think so,” he judged with great confidence. “You’re banned from slaves for forty-eight hours. Don’t even go near one”—he raised his voice to talk over Sherlock’s objections—“don’t communicate with them. John’s off-duty entirely for a week at least, pending medical release.” He gave Sherlock a serious look. “I told you to quit with fire.”

“That was years ago,” Sherlock huffed, extremely put out.

“Did you think it expired?” Lestrade asked dryly.

“Sherlock? Sherlock!” John called insistently. “Where are you, you mad berk?” His tone was affectionate, if not quite steady.

“He doesn’t really know what he’s saying,” the doctor excused hastily.

“He’ll miss me,” Sherlock claimed, and Lestrade rolled his eyes. “Anyway, _you_ can’t ban me, only _Mycroft_ can ban me—“

“Well you feel free to appeal to him,” Lestrade suggested. He’d been at this too long to be intimidated by Sherlock. “And I’ll be asking John to file a complaint about you.”

“He won’t,” Sherlock taunted. Childish, but it was the only thing he had left.

“We’ll see,” Lestrade deferred. “You are on your way to getting sent off again. You can be someone else’s problem for a couple of months.”

“Sherlock?” John asked again, sounding slightly tremulous now. “I’m not calm and focused anymore. It’s too cold in here—“

“Get out,” Lestrade told Sherlock before he could reply. “No contact. Go.” Sherlock huffed but left, John still calling plaintively after him.

**

Sherlock didn’t answer when John texted or, finally, called him. “He’s been banned from requesting or communicating with slaves for forty-eight hours,” Molly informed him soberly. So that explained that.

“Is that considered a serious punishment around here?” John asked her idly. She was in much the same position Sherlock had been, straddling his legs while gently massaging his lower back. It had begun to ache with all the time he was spending on his stomach.

“Oh yes,” Molly assured him. “You only get banned from requesting slaves if you’ve done something very bad!”

“And how many times has that happened to Sherlock?” John asked.

“Several,” Molly admitted. John was not surprised.

“Well, I think he _did_ go a bit far,” John judged. Molly had been distressed about the whole situation and he was torn between trying to reassure her and trying to be honest. “I think he could’ve done it on my arm instead of my back, and then I would’ve had more mobility when something went wrong.”

“Yes, I suppose that makes sense,” Molly agreed.

“Also, stitching the metal into my skin—“ He shuddered a little. “More trouble than it was worth, I think.” He was sure he would never forget that particular smell.

He thought Molly may have nodded behind him. It was hard for her to really endorse the idea of Sherlock going too far. By now her perception was skewed. “Still, only forty-eight hours,” John went on.

“Yes, then he can contact you, and request other slaves,” Molly confirmed. Her tone was bright, as if this was a good thing.

That was not John’s point. “It’s _only_ forty-eight hours,” he clarified. “People can’t do without slaves for two days? I’m sure he often goes without requesting slaves for two or three days.” In fact, he _was_ sure, because he spent a disturbing amount of time on the scheduling website now that he’d found it.

“It’s the principle of the thing,” Molly opined sagely. “People are used to doing whatever they want.” Free people, members of the family, she meant. “Everyone knows he was banned. It’s embarrassing.”

John closed his eyes, trying to relax under her touch. “Hard to imagine much embarrassing Sherlock,” he muttered.

**

The first text came in the middle of the night, apparently when Sherlock’s forty-eight-hour ban lifted. _You’re off duty for a week_ , Sherlock stated.

_I know_ , John replied. He was cranky and not sleeping well, and the text had woke him. That was his own fault, though, he could’ve turned his phone off. There was a long pause and John finally texted again. _What are you doing?_

_Feeding my plants_ , Sherlock responded. He had a bench and a grow-light set up in what a normal person would use as the dining area.

_Don’t get bit!_ John texted back lightheartedly. Several of the plants were carnivorous. The others were essentially poisonous. Sherlock was not the type to potter about with azaleas.

Another long pause, and John wondered if he ought to text again, or just turn his phone off and try to go back to sleep. Then a new message appeared from Sherlock. _What are you doing this week?_

The whole exchange was atypical for Sherlock; John wondered if this was his attempt at remorse. Could he _feel_ remorse? Well, certainly; a mistake was a wasted opportunity that one could easily wish hadn’t occurred. Could he feel _sorry_ about what he’d done to John, though, in a moral sense?

_Lying around on my stomach_ , John sent back. He appreciated the chance to heal but at the same time he anticipated a great deal of boredom in his immediate future.

_Should be used to that_ , Sherlock replied. John rolled his eyes.

_Very dull._

_Agreed_. This reply came quickly.

This was getting too weird for John. If he wasn’t careful he would end up reading all kinds of things into Sherlock’s messages that probably weren’t there, and just make a fool of himself. _Going to sleep now_ , John wrote.

_No. It’s only 3AM._

This made John smile a little. Sherlock thought sleeping was a waste of time. _I meant me_ , he clarified.

_Oh. Okay._

And that was that. John left the phone on for another twenty minutes, dozing fitfully and wondering if he should text ‘goodnight.’ Then he decided against it and turned the phone off. He was off duty for at least five more days.

**

Both Sally and Lestrade tried to get him to file a complaint about Sherlock. John recoiled from the idea instinctively and decided to table reflection about why, relying instead on the grudging admission of both that an official complaint wouldn’t actually mean much. It didn’t even guarantee that John would be protected from Sherlock requesting him again—which was not John’s goal at all, but he managed to distract people by scoffing at this meaningless exercise.

Apparently, Lord Mycroft _could_ ban his brother from using certain slaves—sort of a ‘my house, my rules’ prerogative—and Sally and Lestrade were _certain_ he’d be sympathetic to John after all he’d put up with. Except John wasn’t so sure he would be, considering the things Lord Mycroft had let slide just to keep Sherlock out of his way, and trying to keep Sherlock from John would likely put Sherlock very _much_ in his brother’s way. John had the feeling he was a small sacrifice to make, to keep Sherlock occupied.

And of course, being separated from Sherlock was not his goal. Nor was helping Lestrade ‘build a case’ against Sherlock that might one day result in more severe punishment… such as being sent to another compound for a couple of months as a guest, where he could presumably abuse _new_ slaves and be ineffectively chastised by a _new_ security chief. The whole system was ridiculous and John was disgusted by it.

Ironically perhaps it wasn’t really Sherlock he was worried about, but your average, everyday rapists and abusers, who left slaves crying in their rooms at night or sporting black eyes. No one seemed to find that ‘low level’ violence against fellow human beings disturbing at all. Oh, sure, someone like Lestrade preferred it didn’t happen, but it wasn’t the sort of thing anyone got in trouble for, even if they did it habitually. At least Sherlock explained what he was doing and why, and it wasn’t personal or angry or punitive. But in an angry, punitive society, _he_ was the one people worried about.

Sally just gazed at him and asked him about his pain meds when he got onto this subject in her office. Lestrade cut him off before he could really get going. Molly naturally agreed wholeheartedly, but with an emotional rather than intellectual motivation that didn’t really give John much confidence. None of the other slaves were interested in hearing these thoughts, which seemed vaguely dangerous, and John was not fool enough to voice them to any other free people he might encounter. Sherlock, he knew, would not care in the least either.

Sherlock sent for Molly as soon as he was allowed, which deprived John of the only other person he really liked talking to. Slaves were expected to be kept occupied; those who worked at night slept during the day and the others were all in their various niches around the compound, leaving John with little in the way of company in the slave quarters. A couple of elderly slaves, no longer desired for any purpose and waiting to die (but in the meantime watching soap operas very loudly on the one telly in the slave quarters common room) and one young man with his leg in a cast, broken when he tumbled down some stairs, who was unfriendly in a way that suggested there was little beneath the surface worth digging for—those were John’s companions during most of the day.

True, he could sometimes get in a game of cards or a craft project with others once people got off work—the slave quarters were actually bustling with activity when large numbers were present—but he found that conversation was shallow and the projects mostly busywork, the better to keep one from thinking too much, he reasoned cynically. Deeper friendships _did_ seem to form, he’d noticed—pairs going off to a room for hours, like he and Molly did—but no one seemed to be looking for a new friend.

Well, there was always the library. Not the main library in the compound, of course—that was only for free people, members of the household and also the public; but slaves had to be about their master’s business to enter it. Fortunately the slave quarters had its _own_ library. Which was filled with romance novels, cozy mysteries about houseplants who helped solve murders (largely azaleas, never carnivores), and celebrity magazines of astounding triviality. The only aspect of the latter of mild interest to John was the realization that artists, poets, and classical musicians seemed to receive as much fawning adoration as actors, models, and pop stars. So there was that. But largely it was mush, meant to dull the brain. John could feel his oozing out his ears.

Molly returned for evening roll call. “Sherlock asked about you!” she blurted excitedly, before John could embarrass himself by asking.

“Did he?” he replied, trying and failing to feign disinterest.

“Yes, more than once.” So, twice, probably. “And”—she lowered her voice and glanced around, but people didn’t like to sit by them—“he sent you some books. I put them in your room under the pillow.”

This surprised John on two counts. One was Sherlock thinking about him (though he didn’t know which books they were yet), and the other was Molly’s furtive behavior. “Are we not supposed to have outside books?” he whispered to her.

“It’s frowned upon,” she confirmed. Well, he appreciated it anyway, which took him back to point one.

“Why did he send me books?” he asked Molly, after Sally had passed them. At least their awkward position, leaning forward with their heads close together, could be explained by John’s injuries.

“He said you would be bored,” Molly murmured. That didn’t sound quite right to either of them. “He said _you_ said you were bored,” she corrected herself, and John nodded. Sherlock lacked empathy, he claimed; he wouldn’t have put himself in John’s place and intuited that he’d be bored (which might also require realizing the limited resources of the slave quarters). But John _said_ he was bored, and Sherlock decided to do something about it. That was in itself remarkable.

John was eager to get back to his room and see what Sherlock had chosen; but instead he strolled away from the assembly room arm in arm with Molly, as if they had nothing more pressing to attend to. Which they shouldn’t, really.

“Can we _go_ anyplace else?” John asked her idly.

“What do you mean?”

“Aside from the slave quarters,” he specified. “Like the atrium or the mall. Just to walk around, people-watch.”

Molly laughed a little, pleasantly, and he knew the answer was no. “We can go to the clinic if we’re sick, but that’s it,” she explained. “We can’t go anywhere else unless we’re on someone’s orders.”

“Just checking.”

In his room with the door shut they looked at the books. John was pleased with them. They were all non-fiction—Sherlock probably thought novels were a waste of time—but they covered history, botany, and infectious diseases. John was most surprised by the first, a general history of the country. “I picked that one,” Molly informed him modestly.

“Good choice,” he praised. “Amazed Sherlock even had it around.” History was not a subject he found very relevant.

“It was rather dusty,” she admitted.

“Will you see him again to thank him?” John asked her. “Or should I text him?”

“He said not to contact him through any traceable medium,” Molly conveyed, repeating Sherlock’s words precisely. “I’ll tell him the next time I see him.” Sherlock was probably not sitting around bemoaning the lack of thanks, anyway.

**

A few days later, John was back in Sherlock’s bedroom, with some very good Italian food in him (but not too much—wouldn’t want to get sluggish). They were both naked, kissing was happening, and John was very much looking forward to the escalation.

“Mmm, on your stomach,” Sherlock told him.

John turned. “I like kissing,” he countered carefully.

“Immaterial,” Sherlock declared, and bounced off the bed.

“Where are you going?” John asked suspiciously.

“Nowhere.” Sherlock dug his phone from his jacket and climbed back on the bed, back onto John in fact, who rolled his eyes when he realized Sherlock was taking pictures of his injuries. “Why waste the opportunity?” Sherlock commented. “Even if they’ve been treated.”

“Ow,” John warned him when he felt Sherlock’s fingers straying towards one fading mark. It didn’t really hurt but he didn’t want the other man making it worse. “You don’t think you went a bit far this time?” he suggested lightly.

“You know, you are not the first to mention that,” Sherlock replied, dangerously dry, and John tensed underneath him, wondering if he’d pushed too much. “Relax, John,” Sherlock responded in his ‘soothing’ tone, massaging the back of his neck. “Are you too cold?”

“No, it’s good, thanks,” John assured him, trying to resume his more comfortable posture.

“Mummy was very cross with me about it,” Sherlock shared idly, continuing to rub his shoulders.

“About setting me on fire? I should hope so.”

“ _Partially_ on fire,” Sherlock corrected, pinching John a bit. “Mummy doesn’t really get cross with me very often,” he claimed. “I think she must like you.”

John was not sure how to take that, based on Sherlock’s tone. “Perhaps we could talk about your mother later,” he suggested, “when we’re not naked in bed. It seems disrespectful somehow.”

“Well I wasn’t going to _tell_ her about it,” Sherlock insisted. “Molly said your lower back hurt. Shall I massage it?”

“Mmm, that would be very nice,” John agreed, stretching out more as Sherlock adjusted his position. He could postpone escalation for a while, give Sherlock a chance to make things up to him—though he wondered if that was actually how Sherlock saw it. Seemed unlikely. But that hardly mattered when Sherlock was doing _that_ to him. “G-d, you’re so good at this,” John groaned, feeling his muscles squeeze and relax in rather profound ways. “Where did you learn it?”

“The proper application of neuromuscular pressure,” Sherlock began, still incongruously using his ‘soothing’ voice, “can yield very interesting physical and biochemical effects. Would you like me to detail them for you?”

John hesitated. “I think I would be able to concentrate on them better at another time,” he hedged.

“John, you’re getting tense again,” Sherlock warned. “I must insist that you relax.”

That at least made John laugh. “I’m not sure it’s really possible to _insist_ someone relax, Sherlock.”

“Oh.” Sherlock seemed to consider this for a while, at least until John’s muscles were appropriately jelly-like. Then he rolled off, head propped on his fist as he regarded John. “You didn’t file a complaint about me,” he noted, and John sighed heavily.

“You _do_ know how to ruin a mood,” he declared with disappointment.

“You don’t feel we should have a discussion about this?”

John turned his head to look at Sherlock more directly. “Are you serious?”

“I usually am.”

“You want to have a discussion,” John muttered, turning onto his side. “Okay—you set me on fire. That’s not really cricket, you know? But I’ve been bloody bored recovering—thanks for the books, by the way—and I’ve been doing way too much thinking, and frankly I would like to get back to shagging and enjoying myself, since you are, ironically, one of the few people who seems to care how I feel about things.”

Sherlock gave him a long look after this outburst, akin to how he might gaze at a Martian. “I don’t really care _that_ much, John,” he informed him. “In the future please try to make your opinions shorter.”

“Sorry,” John told him, mentally rolling his eyes. He did not think Sherlock would actually be offended.

“Also note that a discussion usually involves an _exchange_ of ideas,” Sherlock went on pedantically. “Not an irrelevant rant by one party at another.”

“You are very sexy when you are naked and patronizing,” John said forthrightly, scooting closer. “Please don’t set me on fire or sew anything into my skin again. Was that short enough?”

“Shorter,” Sherlock conceded, his hands going through John’s hair as the other man nuzzled his neck. “All of my tests indicated you would remain undamaged,” he added.

John figured that might be the closest thing he got to an apology. “Well nobody’s perfect.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, as if this was something he was working to overturn.

“So can we—“

“Well, alright,” Sherlock allowed. “Kissing, did you say?”

“That would be a good start.”


End file.
